


paterfamilias

by euphoriaspill



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Jossed, Step-parents, Teen Angst, Yuletide 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-19 16:45:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17005344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphoriaspill/pseuds/euphoriaspill
Summary: Callum knows his days in the palace are numbered, now that his mother's gone, so why not leave on his own terms?





	paterfamilias

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chosenfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chosenfire/gifts).



> i know there were like... elves and shit on this show... but i really just hopped on the angsty father/son train and i'm never gettin off— fortunately, we both seem to have the same found family kink and loved watching this dynamic, so let me just say i had a great yuletide ;) 
> 
> (also i die laughing every time i think about callum just... calling his dad 'your majesty' or some shit all the time... and harrow just rolled with it. these guys are something else.)
> 
> 2/15/19: WOW did this get jossed more than i expected, but, hey, it's a product of its time ;)

“This is completely unacceptable, young man. Where do I even _start?"_

King Harrow’s lectures have succeeded at cutting him down like a sword slash since he was five or six, and today is no exception— Callum’s gaze catches on the glint of gold on his crown, then slides back to the drops of rain cascading down the windowpane, his posture slumped and his arms crossed over his chest. “I just can’t imagine what was going through your _head_ ,” Harrow continues, his every footfall heavy as he paces around Callum’s bedroom. “Why in the world would you try to run away... with your sketchbook and three peanut butter sandwiches? Did you get into a fight with Ezran or something?”

“No,” Callum says with a huff, then hurriedly adds ‘sir’ to the end of the sentence. He can’t even manage to mouth off without being respectful— it’s not in his nature.

Harrow tilts his chin up between two fingers, forcing him to look him in the eye— parental disapproval radiates out like two beams of green light. “Fine, then I’ll talk. I know it’s been hard since your mother died, Callum, I _know_ — but we could’ve lost you too, if the guards hadn’t found you in time. You’re grounded for a month.”

“But—“ he tries to start again, only his voice sounds no less whiny, twelve or not. Hey, this is the kind of situation that justifies some whininess. “Your majesty, that’s so not fair!”

“I talked myself down from grounded forever,” the king shoots right back, stabbing a finger at him, “or permanently accompanied by a retinue of a guards, so count yourself lucky. I just don’t understand what’s gotten _into_ you. Reckless plans without an ounce of thought are more the sort of thing I’d expect from Ez... and he's eight years old.”

“Maybe I just wanted to leave myself before you sent me packing!”

 _“I’m gonna miss you when you’re gone,” Soren says, the tip of his wooden sword at his throat once again; Callum shifts in the mud he knows is staining his pants. Yet another example of his painful inadequacy as a prince, huh. “Even if you can’t spar worth_ _shit_ _, kid.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“I mean... now that your mom’s dead...” Soren says with his usual tact. “The king’s just your stepfather, so that would make you... just a step- prince. Get it? Step—“_

_“Yeah, I get it.” Callum scrambles to his feet, panic penetrating his numb, grieving haze. “Leave where?”_

_“Don’t know.” Soren shrugs, his brows knitting together; for all his careless insults, he’s probably the closest thing Callum has to a friend. “Your real dad’s?”_

“What do you mean?” There’s plain astonishment on Harrow's face as Callum snaps back into the present timeline, mingled with no small amount of hurt. “You live here, Callum, where else would you even go?”

“I mean, since Mom died...” He traces a pattern in the carpet with the toe of his boot. “I’m not a prince of the blood or anything, not like Ezran. You’re just my stepdad— you don’t have to let me stay here anymore, I guess.”

(Even saying stepdad seems too familiar, sometimes, with Soren’s thoughtless jabs, the cold looks Viren gives him out the corner of his eye when he thinks no one is watching, the courtiers clucking that at least it’s the _step-_ prince who’s so incompetent at all of his responsibilities.)

Now the astonishment just bleeds into steely determination. “Do you _want_ to leave? If you’d feel more comfortable with your Aunt Amaya, or the rest of your mother’s people—“

“No, sir,” he says with conviction this time. “Definitely not.”

“Then of course you’re staying here,” Harrow says with all the imperium of a royal decree. “This is your home. Your family.”

Callum’s bottom lip trembles, and the back of his throat tightens precariously; Harrow pulls him into his arms as the first tears start to fall. “How could you even _think_ that I'd throw you out?” He cards his fingers through his hair; Callum tries not to get too much snot on a royal outfit. “You’re as much my son as Ezran.”

“Soren said—“

“Soren’s a good boy, but his brain-mouth filter isn’t one of his better qualities.” He heaves a sigh. “We’re all each other's got now. I couldn't imagine anything worse than losing you on top of Sarai."

(If Harrow was cold and standoffish towards him, considered Sarai’s illegitimate son an unfortunate condition of his marriage, that would’ve been one thing— okay, it would’ve royally sucked, who is he kidding, but it’d make aloofness justifiable. Except Harrow stayed up all night with him when he was delirious from fever, clapped at his first awful sword practices, praised all his scribbles like they deserved to hang in the National Gallery. He doesn’t even know who his actual father _was_ , Harrow’s face the only one he can see when he tries to imagine him. Mom never told him the identity of the other, no matter how much he needled, never judged it necessary.)

He brushes his lips against the top of his head, pulling him closer. “I love you, Callum— but you’re still grounded.”

Callum considers using that secret word burning on his tongue when he says it back, the one that’s almost slipped out so many times, to refer to their father, _his_ father. But then he imagines the pain of rejection, like being stabbed with an icicle, the chill spreading throughout his body; Harrow wouldn’t be unkind, not quite, but politely say that he’s being too informal, that he’s only his stepson, that it just isn’t right to pretend—

“Yeah, yeah, love you too, my most merciful king,” he grouses as he pulls free, and then for the first time since his mother’s pyre burned, his mouth twitches into a solid attempt at a smile. That’s good, that’s safe, stick to what you know. Even if Harrow’s face, for the tiniest moment after, always forms just the slightest grimace, like he expected more but can't articulate it.

And he tries to forget about all this until supper that night, when he watches Ezran fling himself into the man’s arms, call him _Dad_ and babble about his day without the slightest hesitation, and jealousy spreads inside him like the cancer that ate his mother whole. 

He wants that. He wants that so much more than he’s willing to admit.


End file.
